


How to elope from your own wedding

by Sunfreckle



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (also Trans Enjolras but only in the background), Both courtesy of the Patron-Minette, Fluff, Nonbinary Grantaire (he/they), Nonbinary Jehan, Other, Rated T only because of language and snarky jokes, Really pure fluff and some wedding nerves, Trans Montparnasse, Wedding Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 12:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: The image in the mirror is exactly as he wants it and yet it somehow doesn’t look like him. Montparnasse stares into his own eyes and exhales as slowly as he can. This is happening. It doesn’t feel real but it is. This is his wedding day.Theirwedding day...Or: the two-parter in which Parnasse is outrageously happy, Babet tries not to be too much of a dad, R wears flowers in his hair and Jehan tries to get rid of their shoes.





	1. The Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from Adrian <3

The image in the mirror is exactly as he wants it and yet it somehow doesn’t look like him. Montparnasse stares into his own eyes and exhales as slowly as he can. This is happening. It doesn’t feel real but it is. This is his wedding day.  _Their_  wedding day. He glances through the room with an oddly detached feeling. It’s so strange… To just…  _have_  this. To suddenly be here. Because even though it seems like he’s been waiting for this moment for a lifetime, until fairly recently he had never even imagined himself in this position. He doesn’t remember ever having dreamt of having a wedding as a kid. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have gotten it right. He wouldn’t have known he’d be the groom for a start. And he never would have managed to dream up someone like Jehan.

A smile fills Montparnasse’s mind and suddenly he turns away from the mirror and grins. He doesn’t need old dreams, he’s got every single dream worth having right here at his fingertips. He’s going to be Jehan’s husband. Jehan will be in his life forever. Because they want to be. Jehan will be his and he will be theirs. No one can ever take that away from him.

The door in the corner opens and Babet enters, looking rather good in his new suit. Montparnasse had insisted on the new suit.

Babet looks him up and down. “Ready, pretty boy?” he asks.

Montparnasse nods.

Babet smirks. “You look scared shitless.”

Montparnasse grimaces. He’s not scared. Not of anything real at least. He’s just- He swallows and asks: “How’s Jehan?”

“Excited,” Babet says calmly. He pulls an amused face. “Recently returned to their dressing room.”

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow.

“It appears Feuilly had to prevent them from sliding down the bannisters in their wedding dress,” Babet explains.

Montparnasse snorts. Well, this place does have a very impressive staircase. All of it’s impressive actually. And gorgeous. It’s a damn castle. Babet had arranged it for them. He had insisted, muttering something about an old favour that needed cashing in. Montparnasse hadn’t questioned him. This location is perfect.

“Perfect,” he breathes.

“Hm?” Babet asks.

“It’s perfect,” Montparnasse says decidedly. “All of this.” That’s what’s so strange about this. Perfection is something that he is used to wrenching violently from the hands of life and here it is, being dropped into his lap voluntarily.

Babet hums sympathetically. “Pretty much,” he says. “Your best man might stab someone if they continue to make small talk at him, but yes-” He grins. “-it’ll pass for perfect.”

As if on cue the door opens again and Claquesous appears.

“Do you need to be checked for bloodstains?” Babet quips.

“Piss off,” Claquesous mutters.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Babet snorts. “See you at your dramatic entrance then.” He flashes Montparnasse a grin that is a little too fond and proud to match the sarcasm in his voice.

Claquesous silently steps away from the door so Babet can leave. When he’s gone, he slowly takes off his sunglasses and tucks them into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Montparnasse can see just a hint of nerves in his friend’s eyes. His own are probably worse though. Or maybe not. He doesn’t feel nervous. The distant feeling at the back of his mind is more like suspicion. He glances down at the rose in his lapel. It’s red. He had asked Jehan if he shouldn’t wear a white one, but Jehan had protested passionately against that. Red roses belonged to him, they had said, they didn’t want him to wear any other colour. Especially on their wedding day. Montparnasse smiles. That’s the whole point. This isn’t some story or fantasy. They aren’t playing pretend. This is real and it’s now and it’s for ever. Because Jehan wants to be with him. Just as he is. No exceptions. No conditions. Nothing except his love in return for theirs. No one can  _ever_  take that away from him.

“What are we waiting for,” he bursts out. The suspicion is gone. Now there’s only elated impatience left inside him and his mind is shining with it.

“Grantaire,” Claquesous reminds him. He’s supposed to tell them when Jehan’s ready so they can start.

“Well he better hurry up then,” Montparnasse says, smirking at nothing in general. If he was Jehan his head would no doubt be filled with poetry right now, but it is empty except for the thought of Jehan themself. Jehan coming towards him clad in gently flowing white. Jehan smiling from underneath the wildflowers woven in their fiery hair. Jehan holding out their hand for him to take and to never let go of ever again.


	2. The Night

Montparnasse amusedly watches Grantaire’s progress through the ballroom on his way back from the bar. He barely manages to avoid being hit in the face, twice. First by Bahorel and then by Gueulemer, who have surprisingly similar styles of dancing.

“There you go,” Grantaire grins when he’s finally made it safely across the room. “Something frightfully expensive you won’t remember drinking in the morning.” He sits down next to Montparnasse and holds out his hand.

Montparnasse takes the offered glass but he shakes his head at Grantaire. “No,” he says. “I’m going to remember every single thing.” It sounds like a vow. Well, it’s a day for vows.

“Hm,” Grantaire hums approvingly.

They both take a sip in silence. Montparnasse searches for the glimmer of white in the colourful crowd and smiles when he spots Jehan. They are dancing with Claquesous, who is wearing neither mask nor sunglasses and despite this still looks remarkably good-humoured.

“Did I even congratulate you yet?” Grantaire ponders, slanting his head. He still has flowers in his hair from the ceremony. So does Feuilly by the way. Jehan wanted them to match their own hair as they escorted them down the aisle.

“I don’t need your congratulations,” Montparnasse snarks affectionately.

Grantaire ignores him. “I’d give you a speech about your life being over, if only because I’m such a traditionalist,” he says mockingly. “But since it’s Jehan…” He smiles and raises his glass at him. “Congratulations.”

“That’s it?” Montparnasse smirks.

“Do you need more?” Grantaire asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“No,” he grins. Right now he feels like he’ll never have need of anything ever again.

“I thought not,” Grantaire grins back.

Suddenly there is a flutter of lace and Jehan’s arms wrap around Montparnasse from behind.

“Sneaking up on me, are you?” Montparnasse murmurs lovingly, clutching at their left hand to squeeze it and feel the ring. It’ll be a while before he’s used to that feeling.

“Yes,” Jehan says happily and they twist around Montparnasse’s chair to sit on his lap. They swing their stockinged feet and make their flowing skirt swish. Jehan had been wearing shoes during the ceremony, but they are nowhere to be seen now.

“As I cannot be needed here anymore,” Grantaire announces. “I will go help Courfeyrac trick my boyfriend into dancing.”

“You go do that,” Montparnasse grins.

“Wait,” Jehan says, extending a hand. “You’re losing your flowers.”

Obediently Grantaire bows his head towards Jehan and they weave some of the more dishevelled flowers back into his thick hair.

“There,” they say.

Grantaire hums something affectionate and disappears to the corner of the dance floor where Enjolras is still shaking his head at Courfeyrac.

Jehan makes a delighted sound and Montparnasse nuzzles against their neck.

“My aunt is filming us again,” Jehan giggles.

“Good,” Montparnasse smirks. He wraps his arms around Jehan and presses a kiss on their pink mouth. Their lips smile against his and when he tries to lean back again they follow, sliding a hand into his hair to prevent him from breaking off the kiss just yet. When they do break apart there’s a bright flicker in Jehan’s eyes.

“We’re  _married_ ,” they say, voice wobbly with joy.

Montparnasse smiles. “We’re married,” he agrees, because it bears repeating.

Around them the wedding party devolves into various displays of types of blackmail material, but Montparnasse and Jehan stay right where they are. Every now and again someone comes up to them to congratulate them  _one_  more time or, as the evening lengthens, to say goodbye. That’s mostly Jehan’s various family members though, their friends are definitely still keeping the party going. Montparnasse plays with Jehan’s hand, twisting their wedding ring around their finger, and considers whether he’d most like to drag them to the floor for one more dance, or if he wants to freeze this moment of quiet among the noise for the rest if his life. The rest of his life. That’s the beauty of it. They  _have_  the rest of their lives. And they’ll be each other’s quiet moments  _and_  each other’s bursts of vibrant noise.

A new song begins and Jehan raises their head.

Montparnasse snorts. “They’re not supposed to play the first dance again,” he says, but Jehan has already slid off his lap, face all happy invitation.

He grins. One last dance it is. “Where are your shoes, little bird?” he asks, following Jehan onto the dance floor.

“I gave them their freedom,” Jehan says happily.

“They were pretty shoes, Jehan,” Montparnasse says, shaking his head.

“You’re just afraid you’ll step on my feet,” Jehan teases. “I’ll lead.”

It doesn’t really matter who leads. This is their song, they know it backwards. Still, the fact that they are not the only ones dancing this time strangely makes it more intimate. More private at least.

Jehan leans their head against his shoulder and mutters something.

“What was that?” Montparnasse murmurs.

“Te amo,” Jehan repeats, lifting their head to smile at him.

“Was that supposed to be Latin or Spanish?” Montparnasse smirks.

Jehan rolls their eyes.

“I love you too,” Montparnasse says fondly, before they can complain at his teasing.

“Good,” Jehan grins. “Because we’re  _married_.”

The song ends and in defiance of the upbeat tempo that follows it, they saunter to the side of the dance floor, still slowly tracing circles with their feet.

When they finally hold still, it is next to Babet, who looks at them with a crooked smile. “Are you planning on making as big an exit as your entrance?” he asks amusedly. “Or are you going to honour Parnasse’s heritage and sneak out through a window?”

Montparnasse pulls a face at him but Jehan sighs: “That sounds perfect actually.”

“Let’s go then,” Montparnasse hums, snaking an arm round their waist.

Jehan bats their eyes at him but then they wrinkle their nose. “Does that mean I have to find my liberated shoes?”

“Might be handy,” Montparnasse grins.

“Fine,” Jehan sighs dramatically and they flit across the room, skirt slightly lifted, in search of their footwear.

Montparnasse watches them go and only the sound of Babet clearing his throat makes him look away. His friend looks older than he usually does, or perhaps just more serious. When he speaks it’s in a rather gruff voice. “You remember you once told me that if you grew up, you wanted to be just like me?”

Montparnasse meets his eyes in silent acknowledgement.

“Well, you will,” Babet says firmly. “And you  _won’t_. And thank fuck for that.” Before Montparnasse can even try to reply, he grins his gravity away and gives Montparnasse a friendly shove. “You did good going soft, pretty boy.” They both glance up to see Jehan running back to them, white shoes clicking on the floor. “Seems it was worth it…”

“Don’t get sentimental on me now, old man,” Montparnasse mutters, hiding a smile.

“Come on,” Jehan whispers, arriving in a slight scattering of flower petals. “Let’s elope from our own wedding.”

Montparnasse grabs their hand and grins. “Lets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have officially decided that these characters get their own universe, to exist side-by-side with my usual "Modern Means Less Miserable". They make me too happy not to actually have a world for. (Don't have a witty name for it yet, but for now I shall call it La Vie Bohème <3)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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